


Love, Actually, is All Around

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Banter, Boss/Employee Flirting, Christmas, Discrimination, F/M, First Kisses, Flirting, Get together fic, Humor, LCDrarry, Lights Camera Drarry 2020, Love Actually AU, M/M, Minister of Magic!Harry, Office Assistant!Draco, Power Imbalance, Wizarding Politics, slight angst, working together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:00:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23181337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: "General opinion's starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed—but I don't see that—seems to me that love is everywhere. Often it's not particularly dignified, or newsworthy—but it's always there." —Love Actually, 2003It's Christmastime, and Harry has just started as the new Minister of Magic. It just so happens that Draco works in his office as well, a holdover from Kingsley's tenure. Naturally, love is in the air.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 52
Kudos: 288
Collections: Lights Camera Drarry 2020





	Love, Actually, is All Around

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! So excited to be participating in Lights Camera Drarry this year! 
> 
> I adore the film _Love, Actually_ , especially Natalie and the Prime Minister, so I was super excited to write Harry as the PM and Draco as Natalie! Taking their story and making it fit Drarry has been one of the most fun times I've had writing! I maybe get a bit hand-wavy with the politics, but let's be real, we're all here for the romance anyway, haha. 
> 
> Huge thanks to N for betaing, britpicking, and making sure my story made sense! Double thanks to H for betaing, as always! 
> 
> See the end notes for a couple (mildly spoilery) explanations for 2 of the potentially triggering tags!

It’s not that Harry is refusing to leave his office, it’s just…

Well, maybe he _is_ refusing to leave his office. It’s rather lush, cozy, with a fireplace charmed to maintain the temperature of his choosing, and a large plush chair that frankly seems a touch out of place in what is supposed to be a place of business. Although, he supposes his rather oversized desk makes up for the lack of sense in the chair—but really, there’s not much sense in the huge desk, either. Feels a bit like a table in the dining hall at Hogwarts, if he’s being honest.

He makes a mental note to speak with someone about redecorating his office, even just a touch. He hasn’t the first clue who to speak with regarding that, but it can’t be hard to find out—of course, finding out requires leaving his office, which brings him back to his initial conundrum.

He’s readying a quill and ink when there’s a gentle but firm knock at his office door. He looks up, waits.

“Minister, are you there?” comes the voice of his assistant, a lovely young woman named Mary. She’s got tight orange curls and a bright smile and has already shown herself able to kick Harry’s arse into gear if needed. “The staff would like to meet you, if you’re feeling up to it.”

 _Meet me?_ He thinks with a laugh. No one ever needs to _meet_ him, he’s the Boy Who Lived for Merlin’s sake. He’s about to tell Mary as such, as kindly as he can, when the door to his office opens slowly.

Mary slips inside and shuts the door quickly behind her. “I understand you’re quite famous, sir, but it’s still important to build a personal relationship with your staff, here. You’re the Minister of Magic, after all. Not _just_ the Boy Who Lived.”

Harry can’t help it. “That sounds so bizarre.”

Mary smiles at him. “I know, sir. How are you feeling?”

“I don’t even know how to put it into words.” And he feels silly for it—he’s faced bigger tasks than this, surely. Not just meeting his staff but being Minister of bloody Magic: none of it can be harder than what he’s already done in his life. Right?

“If you come meet the staff, it’ll help you put off running the Ministry for a bit, at least.”

Harry perks up at that. “Alright, if you insist.”

“I would never, Minister,” Mary replies with a cheeky grin. “Come along then.”

Harry stands, brushes the slight crease from his shirt—a simple, if a bit large, soft blue number gifted to him by Molly, the nicest thing he owns since he’s not especially preferable to dress robes—and meets her by the door. Mary stares at him and he nods back, he’s as ready as he’s ever going to get, and then she’s opening the door again.

Mary guides him away from his office and to a meeting room, with another long table in the middle and on one side stands a line of employees.

“This is Theodore, your bodyguard.”

The man, taller than Harry but not by much and broad like a brick wall, extends a hand. “Not that you should be needing my services much, sir. I know full well you can hold your own in a duel.”

“Oh, er, thank you.” Harry shakes his hand quickly. “Much appreciated.”

Mary gently nudges him down the line—through meeting the head of this floor’s cleaning crew, his financial advisor, his travel coordinator, and lastly, his office assistant…

“Draco Malfoy?”

Mary shoots Harry a look, one that tells him he’s being impolite by tripping over his feet and gaping at the blond standing at the end of the table. Harry knows this, but it doesn’t stop him from tripping or gaping. Mary kindly says, “Yes, Mr. Malfoy is new to the department, just like you.”

“Potter,” Malfoy says, extending his hand as well. While Harry shakes his hand, he realizes Malfoy’s expression changes to something chagrined, embarrassed. “I mean, ‘sir.’”

Harry can’t help his laugh this time. “Never thought I’d hear you say that, Malfoy. Er, Draco.” He can’t help but feel a little smug, a little amused.

“Bugger off,” Malfoy replies swiftly, then his eyes widen, and he adds, “oh shit.”

“You’ve just told the Minister of Magic to bugger off,” Harry says around a laugh, “quite a day you’re having.”

“Sir,” Malfoy tries, but even the single word sounds strange when it's earnest.

“It’s fine,” Harry says easily, swallowing the rest of his mirth. “You could’ve said ‘fuck,’ and then we would’ve been in real trouble.”

Malfoy pauses. There’s a familiar glint in his eyes—suspicion. “Thank you…sir. I did have a feeling I was going to fuck things up on my first day under you.”

There’s a beat of silence before Malfoy simply murmurs, _“Oh, piss it.”_ To Harry’s surprise, there’s pink scattered across Draco’s face in a blush. Harry deigns not to comment on it, especially as his own ears burn. Still, he can’t pull his gaze away from the soft pink on pale skin.

“Right,” Mary drawls from beside Harry. “Well then, I’ll fetch a few things and then why don’t we get started, sir?”

Harry finally tears his eyes away from the blush still staining Malfoy’s face. “Alright.” And if he feels eyes on his back as he leaves the room with Mary—well, he’s the Minister of Magic, after all. _And_ the Boy Who Lived. He’s used to being stared at by now.

Harry sees Malfoy again on his way back to his office—he’s just spent the last few hours in back-to-back meetings, catching up on the finer details of what being Minister means, with Mary at his side—but they don’t speak. Malfoy simply nods politely at him, arms full with a tray of tea and biscuits, before he hurries off down the hall. Harry carries on his way to his office, slips inside, and immediately falls against the door with a sigh.

“Oh,” Harry sighs to himself, “this might be a problem.”

* * *

It, for a while, turns out to be less of a problem than he expected. Primarily because he’s so damn _busy_.

Running the Ministry is a whirlwind. Predictably. Not that Kingsley had left the place in shambles, by any means, god no. But still, it’s a lot of work to be done and, if you ask Harry, not much time at all to do it. The list of things that need his signature, or attention, or opinion, seems to grow and grow and grow.

Harry is half-shouting at his planner—charmed to send all his requests to Mary—when he finally sees Malfoy again.

“I need Robert here at one, if possible, because meetings with him always run late and I’m hoping that Abraham will be on time.” Harry rubs a hand over his brow, attempting to soothe the growing headache there. “And tell Abraham I’m going to sack him if he’s late again—honestly, what’s the point of having a travel coordinator that’s always late!”

The quill scribbles furiously in the planner and Harry opens his mouth to launch into another rant when the door to his office opens. Harry whips his head toward the door so quick his neck twinges, and he tries not to let his shock at seeing Malfoy again show.

Malfoy comes in with his head down slightly, not the proud and haughty upturned nose he once sported. There’s a tray in his hands just like last time Harry saw him. It’s laden with a piping hot teapot, a tall carafe of pumpkin juice, and a small tray of assorted treats.

“I didn’t say you could come in,” Harry says inanely. It’s the first thing that pops into his head.

“I knocked, but I don’t think you heard me.” Malfoy sets the tray on Harry’s desk. “I’ve also got these,” Malfoy says as he draws a thin stack of files from his robes and passes them to Harry. “From International Magical Cooperation.”

“Oh, joy.” Harry accepts the files with one hand and snags a biscuit from the tray with the other. He reluctantly opens one file to peruse it. He’s so focused on the words that seem to swim before him that he doesn’t realize Malfoy hasn’t left until he speaks again. Harry looks up from the files, twinging his neck again. “Something else?”

“I was hoping you’d win,” Malfoy says.

“Pardon?”

The tips of Malfoy’s ears look warm. He speaks begrudgingly, like every word pains him to get out. “I was hoping you’d become Minister.”

“Why on Earth would you hope for that?”

Malfoy blinks at Harry—looks at him as though he’s daft.

“Are you daft?” Malfoy indeed asks. “You’re the savior of the wizarding world, why wouldn’t I want you to be Minister? You kept me out of Azkaban, Potter!”

Harry can only stare at Malfoy, who coughs and adds softer, “I mean, sir.”

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir,’ Malfoy.”

“I think I do. Particularly if you’re still calling me _Malfoy._ ”

“Not if I ask you not to. Draco.” The name feels odd on his tongue. Harry’s so used to spitting out the name in anger that to say it almost jokingly is beyond strange.

Malfoy purses his lips. “Eat your biscuits, sir.”

Harry brushes crumbs from his shirt and reaches for another, a pumpkin pasty this time. “Did you deliberately get my favorites?”

Malfoy simply turns on his heel and strides out of the room. As the door starts to shut behind him, he calls out, “I’ll be back to collect the tray later!”

Harry stares at his office door as he works his way through the biscuits and treats and half the pumpkin juice and none of the tea. When Mary finds him about an hour later, his desk is littered with crumbs and he’s barely made it through the first file.

“Alright, sir?”

“Just fine, Mary,” Harry says, mouth sticky from treacle tart.

Mary smiles at him. “Robert will be here soon. Might I suggest a light scourgify?”

“Oh, bloody hell.” Harry stands and brushes fruitlessly at his shirt and trousers. “Can you help? I’m rubbish at cleaning charms.”

Mary rolls her eyes affectionately, but with a quick wave of her wand, the crumbs are gone along with the wrinkles from sitting for far too long. “Shall I just notify you when Robert has arrived, or would you like me to send him straight here?”

“Straight here is fine, although send Malfoy in first to take care of the tray, please?”

“Of course, sir.”

“And Mary?”

She stops, a hand raised for the doorknob. “Yes, sir?”

“Can I ask…What is Malfoy doing here?” Harry feels a blush burning at his cheeks as soon as the words leave his mouth. Seems so juvenile to ask—and yet, he’s desperately curious. And he’d rather die _again_ than ask Malfoy directly.

“If I may be so bold, I might suggest you call him Draco, sir. If only for your image. If it gets around that you refer to an office assistant by their last name, well…I just feel as though it may look bad.”

Harry swallows. “Noted, Mary, thank you.”

“As for what he’s doing here, I can’t say I know all the specifics. I believe it was a deal he struck with Minister Kingsley, just after the trials finished.” Mary waits and when Harry says nothing else, she nods. “If you need anything else, sir, you know where to find me.”

“Of course, Mary.” And then, despite just having gotten the wrinkles from his clothes, Harry falls back into his chair and lets his head thud onto the desk. “Bloody hell,” he murmurs to himself.

* * *

“I’m sorry, Robert,” Harry says though he isn’t really sorry, “but I need more than that. You know as well as I do that the people, hell, _The Prophet_ won’t take that, they need more. If they wanted any less, I wouldn’t have been elected.” Robert, a mousy older man and Harry’s top aid, nods furiously. “If you could have it to me by tomorrow afternoon, that’d be brilliant.”

“Of course, Minister,” Robert says. He nods again before hurrying off to do as Harry asked. Harry watches him go with a sigh—it isn’t as though he was under any illusion that being the Minister of Magic would be easy, least of all for him. But honestly, it’s shaping up to be a sight more difficult than he maybe imagined.

Harry wanders to his office for lack of anything else to do; the workday is almost done and soon he’ll be flooing home to the emptiness that is Grimmauld. Times like this are odd—he’s grateful to have space after a day spent in the hustle and bustle of the Ministry. But, going home to Grimmauld, as huge as it is, as dark as it is even after redecorating, makes Harry miss when Ron and Hermione lived with him.

Harry leans against his office door, something he feels he’s doing rather a lot lately, and sighs again. He allows himself a moment of self-pity, because his job is hard and other people are idiots and sometimes, he regrets being talked into this whole fiasco. Perhaps he’ll take a few moments of self-pity, even.

Sure, it had seemed like a good idea a year and a half ago, when word started to spread that Kingsley would be stepping down. He’d been at it ten years, no one could really blame him for wanting a change of pace. It had seemed like a good idea for Harry to throw his hat into the ring—it’d been well proven by then that his face and name alone could effect change quite well, so with him in a proper seat of authority, well there was simply no telling what could be done! What sort of reform could be had, what sort of laws pushed through when other Ministers had turned a blind eye (not Kingsley, of course, but he had the excuse of cleaning up after the war, no one could fault him for much.)

It had all seemed like _such_ a good idea, back then.

A knock at his office door brings Harry out of his thoughts. He staggers away and tries to make himself presentable, ends up leaning on the edge of his desk before saying, “Come in.”

It’s Malfoy— _Draco_ who peeks around the door before stepping inside. He leaves the door open behind him as he walks forward, arm extended with a hand full of more folders.

“All you ever do is bring me folders,” Harry says miserably.

“Untrue, sometimes I bring you biscuits,” Draco replies swiftly. “But the folders are more important, so today that’s all you get.” There’s something that might even be a grin on Draco’s face—an unusual thing, one Harry’s not used to. It’s not as smug as it was in their schooldays, and Harry isn’t sure Draco smiled much at all after the war, or during the trials. There’s a playfulness to the expression that Harry has simply never seen. “That’s all I’ve got for you today…sir.” Draco’s grin widens into more of a smirk, and then he’s leaving.

“You know,” Harry starts.

Draco pauses and looks over his shoulder at Harry.

“I, ah. I’m starting to feel uncomfortable…not really knowing what you’ve been up to, er, Draco.”

“Going to start spying on me again, Potter?” Draco’s words come out sharp and quick like a hex, and Harry’s embarrassment washes over him like a cold bucket of water.

“That’s not what I meant, Malfoy, bloody hell. I just meant…I haven’t seen you since eighth year ended, really. Not more than in passing. And now you’re here, working for the Ministry. Of all the things I thought you might end up doing, this isn’t what I expected.”

Draco stares at him over his shoulder a moment longer, then turns back to the door. For a second, Harry’s heart sinks slightly, he’s buggered this all up when things were actually going rather well. Then Draco shuts the office door and turns around again, and Harry marvels briefly at watching someone _else_ lean against his office door in a fit of stress. “It isn’t as though I ever planned to work for the Ministry, except maybe as an Auror.”

Harry winces slightly at that. “I still think the no former Death Eaters rule is rubbish.”

Draco rubs at his left arm, seemingly unthinkingly, before dropping his arms to his side. “I understand its purpose,” he says quietly. “I had hoped to go into potions after eighth year, but McGonagall wouldn’t take me at the school, and I couldn’t get an apprenticeship anywhere.”

Harry’s mouth runs dry—he doesn’t know how to respond to that. He knew, of course, that Draco wouldn’t exactly have an easy go of things post-war. The people fighting for the right side didn’t even have an easy time. And, back then, Harry would’ve said Draco deserved all these things at the time. He deserved to struggle, a bit. He deserved to suffer, just a little.

But now, older and wiser, Harry feels only pity.

“Even now?” Harry asks, voice rasping.

Draco’s grin returns but this time it’s rueful. “I’ve grown quite used to working here. Kingsley was always kind to me, far kinder than I probably deserved. It could be worse.” He shrugs, and his expression lightens ever so slightly.

Harry takes the cue for the subject change accordingly, and trips over his next question. “Er, where are you living these days?” He knows the Malfoy Mansion was taken by the Ministry for reparations, and he knows Narcissa found a lovely home out in the country because she sends him a Christmas card every year, thanking him, and he always owls her back.

Draco raises an eyebrow. “Wandsworth,” he replies, “the dodgy end.”

“…Which end is the dodgy end?”

“End of the High Street, near the Queen’s Head.”

Harry doesn’t know the area in the slightest, but he nods, files the information away for future reference.

“What about you…sir?” Another pause, and Harry could practically see the ‘Potter’ on the tip of Draco’s tongue. “Promise I won’t go giving anything away to _The Prophet_.”

“I live at Grimmauld.”

Draco’s eyes widen. “Really? A Black family home?”

“It’s mine,” Harry says, only a touch defensive, “Sirius left it to me.”

Draco hums. “Rather large place, just you in there?”

“Just me. Ron and Hermione moved out a few years after the war. They’ve got two kids now, y’know.”

“I didn’t know that.” Draco hums again. “Good for them.”

Harry shifts slightly against his desk and realizes he’s starting to crunch the folders in his grasp. He murmurs a quick charm to smooth them over before dropping them on the desk. “What about you, then?” He asks. “On your own in the flat?”

“God, I wish. Bloody full up of flatmates. Only way I can afford the damn place.”

Harry bites his tongue on a joke and instead, for whatever reason, asks, “No partner?”

If Draco looked surprised at the question of where he lived, it’s nothing compared to his expression now. He looks downright gobsmacked. “No…” Then, after a second of hesitation, he adds, “my last boyfriend thought I was too _pointy_.”

“Pardon?”

“Too _pointy_ ,” Draco repeats. “Too angular, or some rubbish like that.” Draco finally moves away from the door and busies himself with tidying some of the office—he straightens Harry’s coat where it hangs slightly crooked on a rack, and his wand drops from his wrist holster and he starts to charm away the already fine layer of dust. He keeps doing it, even after the surfaces near him are dust-free.

“Pointy?” Harry repeats.

Draco makes a distressed noise, between a groan and a sigh. “He said no one’s going to fancy a git with a pointy nose and a figure like a dementor. Didn’t make much sense anyway.” Draco finally stops cleaning, although he does clutch at his wand, and he’s not looking at Harry. “He was a prat, that’s all, really.”

Harry’s fast realizing he’s been given a wealth of information and he isn’t quite sure what to do with all of it. From the living in a flat instead of mansion, to working here instead of following his dreams, and to, to _this_ —Draco being queer is just a lot, for Harry, is all.

“Right,” Harry says slowly, “well I could always sic the Aurors after him.”

That startles a laugh from Draco who finally raises his head and smiles, wide and true, at Harry. “No, that’s quite alright. Sir.” Draco’s grin softens. “I appreciate the offer.”

“You know how it is, ruthless duelers, just a floocall away.”

Draco rolls his eyes again. When he speaks, his tone is playful. “Are you quite finished interrogating me about my life?”

“Yes, yes, sorry.” Harry waves a hand toward the door. “Sorry to keep you.”

“No bother,” Draco says, and he sounds honest. He nods at Harry, and then he’s gone, office door falling shut behind him.

Harry groans to himself and looks over to his left, where the empty portrait of Cornelius Fudge hangs. “You probably never had this sort of problem, did you?”

“I certainly didn’t,” chimes in the portrait of Rufus Scrimgeour from across the room.

“Piss off.”

* * *

“Don’t tell me you’re just realizing this now, Harry,” Ron says, voice a hush with baby Hugo in his arms. “I might hex you if you say you’re _just now_ realizing you fancy Malfoy.”

Harry hides his face in his hands. “I’m not saying I _just_ realized it. Just…it’s more apparent now.”

“It’s more apparent now than it was in school? What are you two doing, shagging in the hallway?”

“Don’t say shagging in front of the baby,” Hermione chides as she sweeps into the room, Rose on one hip and a notepad in her hand. 

Ron rolls his eyes, careful not to let Hermione see, and looks at Harry. “He’s still a git.”

“He’s really not so bad.” _And he’s queer, which kind of changes everything_. Harry doesn’t say that, but the thought pounds in his head a little bit. It wasn’t as though Harry thought of Draco as unattainable before because of perceived…straightness, or whatever. Except that maybe Harry did, and now he can’t hide behind that anymore.

“He’s definitely still a git,” Ron says confidently, dragging Harry from his thoughts. “But what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know!” Harry whisper-shouts, mindful of Hugo sleeping. “He works for me, that’s—that’s a mess, just waiting to happen! Not to mention our history.”

“What you _should_ do is talk about this, like the adults that you are. Honestly, Harry, you’re nearly thirty.” Hermione, as always, the beacon of logic. Not that Harry’s especially keen on minding her advice.

“Don’t remind me,” Harry says miserably. People remind him often enough—one of the youngest Ministers of Magic, after all.

“Just talk to him,” Hermione says again. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

Frankly, Harry doesn’t even want to think about _that_.

* * *

He doesn’t talk to Draco about his feelings, because despite what Hermione says, Harry is not _really_ an adult. Or at least, he doesn’t really feel like one. And besides, he can only handle so much….adulting when he’s the bloody Minister, nevermind in his personal life. That doesn’t stop him from talking to Draco in general, at least.

* * *

Harry’s contemplating breaking his wand in half and sticking both ends in his ears to block out the droning of his financial advisor when his stomach rumbles. He interrupts his advisor’s droning to groan, “Who do you have to screw to get a pumpkin pasty around here?”

The door on the opposite end of the room creaks as it opens and Draco steps quietly into the meeting room. He’s pushing a tray of food and drinks and carefully unloads the pitchers onto the table at the end of the room, taking the dirty and empty plates and pitchers and setting them on the cart instead.

As Draco nears Harry’s end of the table to deposit a tray of his favorite pastries and a tall glass of pumpkin juice, Harry opens his mouth. In a fit of what may be insanity or brilliance, Harry speaks.

“Oi, Draco, what do you think of this new policy? The, ah,” Harry pauses and peeks at the file again, “the policy about increasing funding to pre-Hogwarts education?”

Draco doesn’t startle but Harry can see the confusion written plainly on his face. “I think it’s a nice idea,” he says cautiously, “we can all do with a little bit less to give others a little bit more. And...pre-Hogwarts education could go a long way in maintaining understanding between purebloods and muggleborns.”

Harry nods, and looks over to Anthony, his financial advisor. “Well? The public agrees with me on this.” Harry shoots Draco a cheeky grin, but the other man just rolls his eyes.

Draco plucks the tray of treats from the table once more. “You might as well get into practice,” he says with cheek of his own.

“On second thought,” Harry says as he snatches the tray from Draco, “I’m not sure it is such a good idea.”

Draco shakes his head as he pushes the cart out of the meeting room.

* * *

Harry tugs at the collar of his formal shirt. He’d flat out refused to wear a full set of dress robes for the arrival of MACUSA’s president, Stanley Buckthorn. Mary had tried to strong-arm him into it, but he’d held firm. He agreed to the same soft blue shirt he wore on his first day in office, and to charm to iron out the creases every few minutes, as he couldn’t simply sit still waiting for Buckthorn to arrive, but that was as far as he was willing to go.

“Sir,” Mary’s voice chimes into his office. “President Buckthorn is here.”

“Thank you, Mary,” Harry says with a final tug at his collar. Then, back straight and head held high, he strides from his office. He nods to Mary as he passes her desk and heads for the elevators. It’s a slow day, not many people milling about, and Harry reaches the ground floor just in time to see the MACUSA president slipping between a few people. “Sir!” Harry half-shouts, ignoring the burn at the back of his neck. It isn’t as though he’s got much experience with leads of other countries.

The president, a slim and tall man with sandy colored hair, smiles at Harry. He’s about a decade older than Harry; he’d seemed kind over the floo call, but he has an unexpected sternness in his expression in person. Even so, he immediately extends a hand and Harry shakes it gamely, motioning for him to follow.

“It’s great to finally meet you face to face, Minister Potter.”

“Please, call me Harry.” Harry grins at him as they file into the elevator once more. “I apologize for having you come in on the ground floor, the floo in my office is still under repairs.”

President Buckthorn waves off the apology. “Makes no difference to me. Anything is better than the flight I took here.”

“You didn’t take a portkey?”

“Can’t stand the damn things,” he says with a laugh. “Make me sick to my stomach. Not that flying is much better, but I didn’t want to be showing up on your doorstep too worse for wear.”

Harry leans in a little conspiratorially. “I’m terrified of planes, if I’m being honest.”

The president laughs and claps a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Your secret is safe with me.”

The elevator doors open then, and they stride out onto the floor that houses Harry’s office. As they follow the hallways back to his office, Harry nods at passerby’s. Distracted, he remembers to mention, “I’m sorry your wife couldn’t come.”

“Oh it’s alright, she’s happy to stay home with the kids. Besides…” Buckthorn trails off for a moment, then says, “she probably would’ve gotten bored. She likes to mingle with other wives and whatnot, especially at functions I drag her to.”

“Er, right.” Harry swallows. Inexplicably, he finds himself adding, “I’ve just never been able to tie a girl down.” He winces, but the president doesn’t seem to notice. To cover his awkward stumbling, Harry trips over his next words. “I’ve found that my life and dating don’t go well together. Throw politics into the mix, and I’m dead in the water.”

The president gives him a sidelong glance. “I’ve never found that.”

“Well, you haven’t got a nasty scar on your forehead.”

That, at least, gets a chuckle from Buckthorn, and as they round the last corner before Harry’s office, they nearly run straight into Draco.

“Oh, Draco!” Harry says, caught off-guard even worse than before.

Draco blinks at him. “Sirs,” he says quietly, politely. “Pardon me.”

“Quite alright,” Harry says with a nod. “Isn’t it, Mr. President?”

Buckthorn looks stricken and pale, but after an uncomfortably long beat of silence, he says, “Yes, of course. Perfectly fine. Minister, you said your office is this way?”

“Just around the corner,” Harry confirms. “Have a good day, er, Draco.”

Draco arches an eyebrow. “You as well, Minister.”

Harry has to hurry to catch up to Buckthorn and open his office door. They slip inside and just as the door falls shut, the president speaks again.

“You’ve got a Death Eater working in your office?”

Harry freezes. “Ah, yes? He’s a former Death Eater, actually. And he was essential to stopping Voldemort.” Harry’s head swims with the abrupt subject change—in all honesty, up until he ended up working with him, Harry hadn’t thought much about Draco since the trials ended. Sure, Harry had been confused at first, seeing Draco in the line of his employees, but the courts made their call. What good did it do to linger on the past? Especially when, undeniably, Draco _did_ help Harry, help them all win the war, even in just a small role.

Buckthorn hums, his gaze on the door.

Harry finds himself compelled to add, “He’s terrific at his job,” even though all Draco does is clean things, and bring him files, and sometimes biscuits or pastries. He always brings the best treats, too.

Buckthorn hums again, then looks over at the overstuffed chair still by the fireplace. “Let’s sit, shall we?”

An hour later finds Harry terribly drained, with a headache pulsing at his temples. President Buckthorn is quite particular, arrived here with a very clear plan of what to ask of the Ministry. He doesn’t seem inclined to leave until Harry concedes, which is tough, since Harry doesn’t feel especially like conceding certain things.

Rather than argue the legitimacy of elf and goblin rights again, Harry stands, swallowing a groan of appreciation as his back cracks. “I’ll only be a moment,” he tells the president, before slipping from his office. Yet again, he nearly runs right into Draco.

“Was just bringing some biscuits and tea by,” Draco says, the tray of treats cradled protectively close to his chest.

“Brilliant, I need them.” He reaches for one but Draco slaps at his hand. “Oi!”

“They’re not _just_ for you,” Draco says with a grin. “I’ll leave them in the office,” he nods at the door hanging open behind Harry, “and you can have some while you _work_.”

Harry holds up his hands in surrender and moves aside so Draco can get to his office. “Alright, alright. I’m only going to be away for a moment.”

“Go.” Draco slips into the office and Harry slips away, down the hall to the loo.

When he returns, the office door is still slightly ajar and, strangely enough, he can hear voices drifting out into the hall. Mary isn’t at her desk—there’s no one around at all, actually. Harry swallows around the uncertain lump forming in his throat.

The voices stop as he pushes the door open to find Draco nearly backed against his desk, and Buckthorn standing toe-to-toe with him. Draco’s leaning back, away from the president, and a quick glance down tells Harry that his knuckles are white with how hard he’s clutching the desk.

Buckthorn clears his throat and takes a step back. “Right, Mr. Malfoy. I hope to see more of you, as Harry and I work together.”

“Of course,” Draco replies. “Thank you, sir.”

Harry opens his mouth but before he can speak, Draco’s off like a shot out of his office. Harry wills himself not to turn and follow, and instead says to the president, “Well, how about that press conference? “

It’s not Harry’s first conference in front of reporters—not since becoming Minister of Magic, not even since the war—but he’s no less nervous now than he was the first time. It’s not a large gathering, but big enough to make Harry’s palms sweat; he tries to wipe them surreptitiously on his trousers.

The first reporter, a familiar face from _The Daily Prophet_ , asks, “Mr. President, has it been a good visit?”

Buckthorn smirks, and Harry’s briefly simmering irritation with him kicks up. “Yes,” the president says, “we got what we came for. We’re looking forward to developing this relationship between MACUSA and the Ministry of Magic.”

All the heads in the room seem to swivel the scant few feet to where Harry stands at his own podium. When he doesn’t immediately speak, someone prompts him with a quiet, “Minister?”

“Love that word, ‘relationship.’ Covers all manner of sins, doesn’t it?” Harry gets a few titters of laughter from the audience for that. “We all know I have not always been the most politically minded public figure, but I still went into this meeting with President Buckthorn feeling prepared. I fear this has become something of a bad relationship, where the President feels he can push others around as he pleases, and judge others as he likes.”

Harry forces himself not to look at Draco as he says it, but he’s fairly certain he can feel familiar silver-gray eyes burning holes into his skin. He swallows, clears his throat, and continues.

“I look forward to continuing to work with President Buckthorn and MACUSA, if only so that he can see that I, much like my predecessor, am not so easily swayed. The wizarding world is larger than the Ministry and MACUSA, and it should both our jobs to speak for every witch and wizard—not just the ones we think deserving of it.”

“So, from this moment on, I will be more prepared to stand my ground. And President Buckthorn should be prepared for that.”

The entire conference room, which had been quiet enough to hear a pin drop as Harry spoke, erupts into chaos the moment he’s finished speaking. There are cameras going off a mile-a-minute, quick quote quills writing so fast they look like they’ll burn through the parchment. People are practically jumping from their seats to speak, but one woman speaks louder than the rest to shout—

“Mr. President, what do you think of that?”

Buckthorn looks shocked, but if Harry had to guess, he thinks there might be a glimpse of newfound respect there. It does nothing to cool the irritation and panic in Harry’s chest, but it’s good to see, nonetheless. Harry finally looks away and spots Draco in the crowd, that shock of blond hair impossible to miss.

Draco looks back, an unreadable look on his face. Harry opens his mouth, as though he could speak to Draco from across the sea of reporters, but Draco drops his head before turning and leaving the room.

Harry’s phone is ringing in his coat pocket when he steps into his office. His headache has compounded, the throbbing so insistent he thinks he might be sick. He digs his phone from his coat and stumbles toward the fireplace. He flips open the phone and brings it to his ear with a sigh.

Hermione speaks immediately. “Are you completely mad?” Ron hollers something that sounds like agreement in the background, over the sound of their children babbling happily.

“You can’t always be sensible,” Harry says.

“Why do I feel like that’s been your mantra since I first met you.”

“Swear it hasn’t been,” Harry says tiredly. “But I can see why you’d think that.”

“Honestly, Harry, you’re the Minister of Magic. You can’t go in front of a conference, and just _—_?”

“Oh, look, it’s McGonagall on the other line!”

“No, it isn’t, you and I both know she still hasn’t gotten a phone yet!”

“Nope, it’s her, I’ll call you back.”

“No you won’t!”

Harry hangs up, and only feels a little bad. He turns off his phone and slips it into his pocket with another sigh.

* * *

Harry stares at _The Prophet_ that sits on his dining room table. Feels as though it’s mocking him, honestly—the black and white moving photograph of him, righteously going on and on. He doesn’t regret what he said, per se. He hadn’t really understood the depth of the relationship between MACUSA and the Ministry; it’s a mix of animosity, resentment, and some sort of twisted admiration. At first Harry had felt cowed, but something about seeing Buckthorn corner Draco…well, Harry perhaps went a little overboard.

 _The Prophet_ is reporting the good and bad sides of things but if the texts from Hermione are to be believed, most people are rather pleased with Harry’s speech. It makes him feel a bit better, a little less foolish. He didn’t have a chance to speak with Draco after the conference, and frankly, he’s not sure he can face the other man.

“I can’t let my feelings for Malfoy get in the way of my job,” he says aloud to no one. Really, he’s mostly saying it to the photograph of him. The miniature black-and-white Harry arches an eyebrow at the real Harry, and he turns the newspaper over with a sigh. “I can’t,” he repeats, “I _won’t_.”

* * *

Harry walks into his office a few days later, after his night spent alone and wallowing _and_ after a night spent being told-off by Hermione, feeling a sense of dread and relief at the same time. He stops by Mary’s desk first thing, and she looks up curiously.

“Need a favor,” Harry murmurs.

Mary nods. “Of course, anything for the savior of the wizarding world.” He can tell she’s only half-teasing when she says it.

“Don’t read into this, don’t ask me why, but, ah, you know Draco?”

“The pointy one,” she agrees, even though he knows for a fact she knows Draco better than just to refer to him as ‘the pointy one.’

“Is he _really_ that pointy?” Harry asks. He’s seen Draco as _gaunt_ before, sure, during sixth year and the war. But pointy…well, he’s a little pointy, maybe.

“Oh, absolutely, that nose? Chin? Cheeks? Can’t imagine his arse in your lap, all bones.”

Harry can fast feel a blush rushing to his cheeks. “Right, well, anyway, could you, ah…redistribute, him? Not fire him, just…move him elsewhere?”

Mary pauses only for a moment. “Of course, sir. Consider it done.”

* * *

It’s Christmas Eve, and Harry knows he ought to be at the Burrow by now, but all he’s got left to do is open a few letters and then he can be free for the rest of the evening and the following day. There’s a Christmas festival tonight at the community theater Hermione likes to frequent, and Rose is evidently a big part of it. Harry promised Hermione and Ron he’d be there.

He drags the stack of letters that’s been steadily growing all week closer to him and starts to thumb through them. Some are from acquaintances, some he’ll ask Mary to take a look at, some are proposals from other departments and some things will require his signature—all things that can wait until he returns bright and early the day after Boxing Day.

The last letter in the stack is a simple envelope, crisp, with familiar scrawl across the front. Harry huffs out a laugh at the carefully written _‘Scarhead.’_ He doesn’t even bother with a spell to get the letter open and instead just tears into it, thumb under the edge to peel apart the seam.

He tugs out the card and laughs again, louder, at a sketch. He remembers a day, back in their…god, it must have been third year. The crumpled-up parchment had smacked against his head and fell open to reveal a charmed doodle. This doodle, on the card, is considerably nicer than the one of him getting knocked out by a bludger.

It’s a snowy scene, a few trees and what must be a squirrel darting across the ground every few moments. This sort of charmwork was never Harry’s specialty. He’s never had a chance to ask Draco where he learned it, or how he got so good at it.

He unfolds the letter and reads.

> _~~Dear Potter,~~ _
> 
> _…. Dear Harry,_
> 
> _Happy Christmas, and Happy New Year, or whatever._
> 
> _Bloody hell, why is this so hard? ~~It shouldn’t be this hard.~~_
> 
> _I just wanted to say…I’m sorry for that day with the MACUSA president. It was a bad moment, and I feel completely daft. For once, I did not actually mean to cause you any trouble. I just…didn’t know what to do. So, I’m sorry._
> 
> _Particularly because—well, if I can’t say it now, when_ can _I say it?_
> 
> _I’m actually yours._
> 
> _—Draco_

Harry slaps out a hand toward the intercom and Mary’s voice crackles to life. “Yes, sir?”

“Can you get me a location?”

“Of course, sir. What are we looking for?”

“Draco Malfoy’s address.”

Mary hums. “Since he was, ah, redistributed, I don’t have his exact address right on hand. I can get you to the street, though.”

“Can you get me to the dodgy end?”

Mary laughs and covers it up with a cough. “Certainly, sir.”

“Excellent.”

* * *

Harry stumbles as he lands at what is evidently the dodgy end of High Street. It’s not what he expected at all. The street is possibly the longest bloody street Harry has ever seen, and there’s not a shop in sight. It’s rows of houses all tightly packed together. They’re all nearly identical save for the alternating colors and various decorations littering certain houses. Beside him, Theodore lets out a low whistle.

“Which number is it?” Theodore asks.

“Haven’t a clue,” Harry says, “and it’s the longest street in the world.”

“Might as well start somewhere then, eh?”

Harry sighs and nods and approaches the first house to his right. He knocks, and right away an older woman wrapped in a shawl answers.

“Hello,” Harry says awkwardly. “Is Draco here?”

The woman blinks at him. “You’re Harry Potter!”

“That I am.” Harry looks at Theodore, who simply shrugs. “Sorry, but is Draco here?”

“No, no, he lives down the street a bit.”

“Do you happen to know which number?”

“Of course not!”

Harry winces. “Right, of course not. Terribly sorry to bother you.” He waves slightly and backs away, and even once he’s off her stoop, the old lady doesn’t stop staring at him. “Theodore, am I absolutely mad?”

“Most definitely, sir.”

“Thanks.” Harry nods, then strides off to the next house.

Three houses down from the first, a gaggle of young girls ask Harry to sing. He doesn’t think they even know who he is.

“Really,” he insists, crouching slightly to reach their level. “I’m rubbish at singing, you don’t want to hear me sing.”

The tallest of the girls, with tightly coiled black curls, squints suspiciously. “Can he sing?” She asks, pointing at Theodore.

Harry opens his mouth to answer when Theodore answers for him—by singing, because apparently, he _can_ sing, and has no qualms about doing it for the amusement of a couple kids. He sings the first half of the latest Weird Sisters song that’s been playing a lot, and the girls giggle with delight.

After that, it’s a family that only speaks French, which neither he nor Theodore understand; then it’s a string of houses with no answer, which Harry figures is fair, but also is of no help to him. The further he gets down the street, the more tired his legs get and the less certain he feels.

He’s slightly out of breath at the next house. It’s a young woman with cropped pink hair—reminds him of Tonks, for only a minute. She smiles at him.

“You’re the Minister of Magic!”

“I am,” Harry agrees. “New service we’re implementing, trying to get to all the houses before Christmas.”

The girl snickers. “What can I do for you, Minister?”

“Er, does Draco live here?”

“Draco Malfoy? No.”

Harry’s already starting to turn, murmuring his thanks, when the girl speaks again.

“He lives next door.”

Harry freezes, one step down the stone stairs. “Oh?”

“Mhm,” she peeks her head out and points next door. “Right there.”

“Brilliant, thank you!”

Harry nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to get to the next house, and nearly trips again when he hurries up the steps. He’s keenly aware of Theodore watching him from the pavement, and the neighbor still watching him as well. He puts both things from his mind as he raises his hand to knock.

Only for the door to open before his knuckles make contact.

Three men his age, none of them Draco, stare at him.

“Oi, it’s the Minister,” says with one with spiky, sticky-looking hair.

A red-headed one elbows the other in the side before saying, “Hello, sir.”

“Hello,” Harry greets with a nod. “Er, is Draco here?”

“Where the fuck is my bloody coat?” Comes a familiar voice from the stairs. “I’m not going out if one of you twats stashed my fucking coat again!”

Draco stops short the second he sees Harry, and Harry’s man enough to admit his breathing catches in his chest.

“Er,” Draco starts, “these are my flatmates.”

“Very nice to meet you,” Harry assures the three others before turning his attention back to Draco.

“Lads, this is the Minister of Magic.”

“We got that, Draco, thanks,” says the black-haired one.

Draco flips him two fingers. “What are you doing here, Potter?”

“What, not going to call me sir?”

“Not since you had me removed from your department, no.” There’s not the venom in his voice that Harry expects.

He responds apologetically all the same. “I had you redistributed.”

“Semantics,” Draco retorts.

“We’re off to a bar, you see,” says the spiky-haired one. “Taking Draco out to drown his sorrows.”

“Shut up!” Draco hisses, coming the rest of the way down the stairs to slap at his flatmate’s shoulder. “We are simply going out. And we’re _terribly_ late.”

“Looks like it,” Harry agrees. “Why don’t Theodore and I escort you lot to the pub, then?”

Draco’s face does something funny—first he looks cross, then it softens, before back to cross. “Not necessary,” he says at the same time his flatmates erupt into cheers.

The spiky-haired one declares, “You’re a ledge, mate, Artie’s already drunk so we can’t apparate ourselves and it’s too bloody cold to walk.” Then all four of them are spilling onto the doorstep with Harry and he stumbles back to make room.

“Let me get my coat,” Draco groans before slipping back inside. The flatmates wander down to Theodore and start up a conversation with him, but Harry loses interest quickly when the door opens again. Done up in a black and weathered peacoat, Draco sniffs. “Well then, let’s be going.” Draco walks past Harry to the pavement, and Harry hurries to join the group.

“Unfortunately, I can’t take this whole lot myself,” Theodore says with a grin. One of them, the red head, shuffles closer to Draco and Harry.

“God, Artie,” Draco mutters. “C’mon, then.”

Harry holds out an elbow to each man. “What pub is it?” He asks, and once he and Theodore know where they’re going, they share a nod before grasping at their wands in their pockets. Between one blink and the next, the dodgy end of High Street disappears and becomes an alley just off a bustling street. Most of Draco’s flatmates waste no time staggering toward the crowd, but Draco hesitates.

“Harry,” Draco says at the same time Harry blurts out, “Thanks for the Christmas card.”

Draco blinks. “Oh, you’re welcome.” He pauses, and for a moment it feels like his silvery eyes are going to bore holes in Harry’s face. “I just,” he starts, before it all comes out in a burst, “I came into your office, and he stalked toward me. I nearly dropped the blasted tray right on the floor, but I set it down before he started yelling. And then he just kept getting closer, and closer, and I felt like such a fool, because nothing _really_ happened.”

“That’s not true,” Harry interjects, but Draco doesn’t seem to hear him.

“He was the MACUSA president, and he didn’t actually hex me or hit me or anything. But he was so bloody awful, I didn’t know how to react. I just felt so, so foolish, because things had been, I thought, going so well.” Draco takes a deep breath, then clarifies, “between me and you. Things had been going well between us.”

Harry opens his mouth to reply but Artie hollers from the edge of the alley, “C’mon then!”

“Look, I better go,” Draco says, “the last thing you need on Christmas eve is a former Death Eater putting a damper on things.” He takes a step toward the mouth of the alley, but Harry catches him with a hand around his wrist.

“Do you have to?” Harry asks, although that’s not what he’s really asking.

Draco’s smile is soft, regretful; his face is tinged with pink from the cold. “Yes, I think that’s best. Although I will be very sorry to walk away from you.”

Harry tightens his hold on Draco’s wrist and tugs him closer. “I have a better idea,” he murmurs.

Draco stares at him with what looks like equal parts shock and excitement. He turns out of Harry’s grasp just long enough to shout, “Go on without me!” at his flatmates. Then he’s back near Harry, even closer than before, and he asks, “What did you have in mind?”

“Theodore, you’re dismissed for the evening,” he says to his bodyguard, who gives him a nod and a grin. To Draco, he says, “How do you feel about community theater?”

Draco’s yelp of protest is lost as they disappear with a _pop_.

They land outside the theater where the pavement is nearly empty. There’s a man at the ticket office and Harry hurries over to him, never letting go of Draco’s wrist.

“Minister,” the man says, dazedly.

“That’s me,” Harry confirms. “I’m here with the Weasleys, or, well, I’m supposed to be.”

“The show has already started,” the man says, “but I can bring you in along the wings.”

“Brill, that’d be lovely.”

The man nods and slips out of the ticket booth, holding one of the theater doors open. “This way, we’ll keep it mum.”

“You read my mind.” Harry looks over his shoulder as they walk inside and catches Draco looking unsure. “It’ll be fine, I promise.”

“I hardly know the Weasleys. It’ll be terribly awkward.”

“It won’t,” Harry assures as they’re led down a hallway. There’s a few more people here and there, and Harry keeps his head ducked to avoid being spotted or drawing attention to them.

“The wings are just up ahead,” the man says at the same time Hermione shouts, “Harry, you’re here!”

The concierge plasters himself to the side wall as Hermione, a ball of energy and bushy hair, barrels into Harry. He has to let go of Draco’s wrist to hug her back, but it’s worth it.

“Of course I made it, I told you I would, wouldn’t I?”

“You haven’t been answering your phone, we got worried when you didn’t show up at the Burrow. Mary said you had urgent business to tend to.” Then, Hermione’s gaze strays past Harry to Draco. Harry follows her eyes and watches as the other man seems to shrink in on himself for a second before straightening up.

“Hermione,” Draco says as he puts forward a hand for her to shake.

“I see,” Hermione says as she moves out of Harry’s space to shake Draco’s hand. “The show has started, Rose is up in a few minutes, did you want to come with me to the seats?”

“Ah, I didn’t want to steal attention away,” Harry says.

Hermione raises an eyebrow at him. “Alright then,” she drawls knowingly. “But you have to meet up with us after the show.”

“Of course, we’re still doing dinner back at the Burrow, right?”

Hermione nods and kisses his cheek. She nods politely at Draco. “Happy Christmas.”

Draco looks even more stunned as he replies with a “Happy Christmas” of his own. They both watch Hermione hurry down the length of the hallway where she meets up with a freckly, bushy-haired redhead who shoots Harry a wave.

“C’mon then,” Harry says. He turns and reaches for Draco’s wrist again, and after a moment he links their fingers. Draco doesn’t protest, even as they have to push through throngs of kids and teenagers to find a spot in the wings where they’ll be out of the way.

“Not so close, Potter,” Draco chides as Harry sways to peek at the stage, “you’ll rustle the curtains.”

Harry sways back into Draco’s space and grins. “Alright, alright.”

Draco’s smiling back at him and it’s a struggle for Harry to force his head back to the stage where…well, he’s not actually sure what’s happening. He’s not even sure what the festival is all about, other than Rose’s Shakespeare scene. Which, frankly, seems a little out of place at a Christmas festival. He probably ought to listen more when Hermione speaks, but he figures he can be cut a little slack. He is the Minister, after all.

Whatever’s happening on stage ends and someone walks out with a microphone. “Next up,” she announces, “is Rose Weasley and her acting troupe, performing a scene from Shakespeare.”

Draco snorts and murmurs, “she _is_ Granger’s daughter, isn’t she?”

Harry can’t argue—especially not as more kids move out onto the stage and block his view. “Bloody hell, I can’t even see her.”

Draco tugs at his hand. “I have an idea,” he whispers, and Harry allows himself to be led. Draco guides them around the curtains and behind the set on the stage before gesturing to a small gap where stage light shines through.

“How did you know about that?” Harry asks as he peers through the gap, feeling sufficiently hidden. He can only see the back of Rose as she acts and strides across the stage, but it’s better than before.

“Had a hunch,” Draco says with a smile.

As the scene goes on, they watch in silence. It’s alright—Rose is the clear star, which is hardly a surprise—but Harry’s never been especially fond of Shakespeare. Or plays in general, really. As the scene winds to a close, he finds himself turning to look at Draco, his pale face just barely illuminated by the stage lights.

Draco looks over too. He smiles at Harry, and he’s opening his mouth to say something, but Harry can’t be arsed to care too much. He rocks forward, catching Draco with one hand on his hip and the other against his jaw, as he drags the other man into a kiss. Draco makes a muffled noise of surprise into the kiss but his arms wind around Harry’s shoulders and pull him a little closer. Draco tilts his head and lets Harry deepen the kiss, warm and soft, hissing slightly when Harry bites at his bottom lip.

Suddenly it gets much warmer and much brighter. There’s a chorus of gasps unlike Harry’s ever heard, and the thought has him pulling away from Draco.

The set’s been lifted to reveal the snowflakes hanging above them that Harry hadn’t noticed before. Harry can see the audience if he squints—the stage lights make it hard, but not impossible. Which means he and Draco are probably in an almost picture-perfect view, now. It’s picturesque even from his side, as fake snow drifts onto the stage.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Harry murmurs.

Draco snorts again. “Not quite as private as we’d hoped, hm?”

Harry glares at him but turns. “Well, c’mon then.”

“What are you doing?” Draco hisses as Harry tugs him to face the crowd.

“Bowing,” Harry says simply, “we gave them a bit of a show after all.”

Once again, a myriad of emotions flit across Draco’s face at an alarming speed: anger, fear, embarrassment, before settling on mirth. He’s laughing as they bow—and so is Harry.

* * *

_epilogue_

Draco is antsy, waiting amidst the various employees and guests milling about the atrium of the Ministry. Any moment now, Harry will come tumbling out from the floor across from Draco, _finally_. First Harry had gone to the States to work with the new MACUSA, then Harry had detoured to Canada, then stopping by Scotland to see McGonagall. He’d offered to let Draco tag along—“I’ll say you’re my personal assistant!”—but Draco had declined, and then about a week into the trip, had severely regretted it.

But Harry’s back, _finally_ , and Draco is determined to greet him the moment he steps out of the floo.

The aftermath of their kiss had been…well, hardly an aftermath at all, really. Most of the people in the audience hadn’t recognized Draco off the bat, and evidently anyone who did was kind enough to keep it quiet from _The Prophet_. It wasn’t until some paparazzi caught Harry and Draco leaving Grimmauld together after a long weekend that people started to put the pieces together. Even then, it hadn’t been as big of a disaster as Draco would’ve ever expected. If anything, it rather seems like everyone in the world had been _waiting_ for this to happen.

“Rubbish,” he mumbles to himself. He clocks someone nearby, loitering about, and pegs them as a paparazzi. Not surprising, given how long Harry’s been gone. Draco has half a mind to go over and ask the paparazzi to give Harry a bloody break when the floo finally roars to life.

Harry steps out of the green flames brushing soot off his shirt and Draco—well, Draco’s moving before he can really think about it.

It’s been a _month_ , alright? He’s allowed a lapse of proper judgement now and then.

Draco charges at Harry and gets to see his boyfriend look alarmed, then surprised, then delighted before Draco launches himself at Harry, arms around his neck. In turn, Harry’s arms wind around Draco’s waist and lift him slightly off the ground—what a show off.

“God, you’re awful pointy,” Harry murmurs playfully in his ear.

Draco nips at his neck and whispers back, “If you can handle the weight of the wizarding world’s woes, you can damn well handle _me_.”

Harry laughs and replies, “I suppose you’re right.” He doesn’t drop Draco as he lifts his head to kiss him, gentle and deep as camera flashes go off around them.

They’ll be in tomorrow’s _Prophet_ for certain, and Draco doesn’t mind one bloody bit.

_If you look for it, I’ve got a nasty suspicion you’ll find that love actually is all around._

**Author's Note:**

> Elaboration on potentially triggering tags:  
>  **Discrimination:** There is a scene where Draco is implied to be threatened for his status as a former Death Eater. No actual violence is shown or discussed.  
>  **Power imbalance:** since Harry is technically Draco's boss, there is potential for power imbalance while they're flirting. However, nothing overtly romantic happens until after Draco no longer works for Harry.
> 
> ***
> 
> This work is part of "Lights, Camera, Drarry" (LCDrarry), a film-, TV- and theatre-inspired Drarry fest.  
>  The creators will be revealed on [tumblr](http://lcdrarry.tumblr.com) and [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/LCDrarry2020/works) on 15 June 2020.
> 
> Please show your appreciation to the creator with kudos and comments :)


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